Arabella Stuart - Poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

Autoplay next video

And is not love in vain, Torture enough without a living tomb?

Byron

Fermossi al fin il cor che balzò tanto.

Pindemonte

I

'TWAS but a dream!–I saw the stag leap free,Under the boughs where early birds were singing,I stood, o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree,And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringingFar thro' a royal forest: then the fawn Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawnTo secret covert; and the smooth turf shook,And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook,

And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career,A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear,Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the danceOf their white plumes, that bore a silvery glanceInto the deep wood's heart; and all pass'd bySave one–I met the smile of one clear eye,Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there,Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hairBack from thy gallant brow, as thou didst reinThy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,And fling, methought, thy hunting-spear away,And, lightly graceful in thy green array,Bound to my side; and we, that met and parted,Ever in dread of some dark watchful power,Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-hearted,Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour,Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneathDim woven leaves, and midst the floating breathOf hidden forest flowers.

II

'Tis past!–I wake,A captive, and alone, and far from thee,My love and friend!–Yet fostering, for thy sake,A quenchless hope of happiness to be,And feeling still my woman's spirit strong,In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrongA heavenward glance. I know, I know our loveShall yet call gentle angels from above,By its undying fervour; and prevail,Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale,Thro' hearts now cold; and, raising its bright face,With a free gush of sunny tears, eraseThe characters of anguish. In this trust,I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust,That I may bring thee back no faded form,No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm,But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet,Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.

III

And thou too art in bonds!–yet droop thou not,Oh, my belov'd!–there is one hopeless lot,But one, and that not ours. Beside the deadThere sits the grief that mantles up its head,Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,When darkness, from the vainly-doting sight, Covers its beautiful! 1 If thou wert goneTo the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow,–If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low toneOf earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n now,Seems floating thro' my soul, were music taken For ever from this world,–oh! thus forsaken,Could I bear on?–thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou'rt mine!–With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine,And, by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn,Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return.

IV

And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning,Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care!I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorningThe wild and busy whispers of despair!Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven.–I waitThe hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee.Oh! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mateAs a star shoots!–but on the breezy seaWe shall meet soon.–To think of such an hour!Will not my heart, o'erburdened by its bliss,Faint and give way within me, as a flowerBorne down and perishing by noontide's kiss?–Yet shall I fear that lot?–the perfect rest,The full deep joy of dying on thy breast,After long-suffering won? So rich a closeToo seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.

V

Sunset!–I tell each moment–from the skiesThe last red splendour floats along my wall,Like a king's banner!–Now it melts, it dies!I see one star–I hear–'twas not the call,Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd too soon.I must keep vigil till yon rising moonShower down less golden light. Beneath her beamThro' my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dreamOf summer-lands afar, where holy love,Under the vine or in the citron-grove,May breathe from terror. Now the night grows deep,And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.I hear my veins beat.–Hark! a bell's slow chime.My heart strikes with it.–Yet again–'tis time! A step!–a voice!–or but a rising breeze?–Hark! haste!–I come, to meet thee on the seas.

VI

Now never more, oh! never, in the worthOf its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earthTrust fondly–never more!–the hope is crush'dThat lit my life, the voice within me hush'dThat spoke sweet oracles; and I returnTo lay my youth, as in a burial-urn,Where sunshine may not find it.–All is lost!No tempest met our barks–no billow toss'd;Yet were they sever'd, ev'n as we must be,That so have lov'd, so striven our hearts to freeFrom their close-coiling fate! In vain–in vain!The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again,And press out life.–Upon the deck I stood,And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood,Like some proud bird of ocean; then mine eyeStrained out, one moment earlier to descryThe form it ached for, and the bark's careerSeem'd slow to that fond yearning: it drew near,

Fraught with our foes!–What boots it to recallThe strife, the tears? Once more a prison-wallShuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight,And joyous glance of waters to the light,And thee, my Seymour, thee!

I will not sink! Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee;And this shall be my strength–the joy to thinkThat thou mayst wander with heaven's breath around thee;And all the laughing sky! This thought shall yetShine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet,Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken,And unto me, I know, thy true love's tokenShall one day be deliverance, tho' the yearsLie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears.

VII

My friend! my friend! where art thou? Day by day,Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while,Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughsRound hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile,Fills the green forest;–young hearts breathe their vows;Brothers, long parted, meet; fair children riseRound the glad board; Hope laughs from loving eyes;–All this is in the world!–These joys lie sown,The dew of every path. On one aloneTheir freshness may not fall–the stricken deer,Dying of thirst with all the waters near.

VIII

Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers!By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent;O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers,And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent,

Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheenOf twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been,Thro' the leaves pouring its dark sultry bIueInto your glowing hearts; the bee to youHath murmur'd, and the rill.–My soul grows faintWith passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paintYour haunts by dell and stream,–the green, the free,The full of all sweet sound,–the shut from me!

IX

There went a swift bird singing past my cell–O Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things! With you the peasant on the hills may dwell,And by the streams; but I–the blood of kings,A proud unmingling river, thro' my veinsFlows in lone brightness,–and its gifts are chains!–Kings!–I had silent visions of deep bliss, Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this

I am cast under their triumphal car,An insect to be crushed.–Oh! Heaven is far,–Earth pitiless!

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am prov'd So long, so sternly! Seymour, my belov'd!There are such tales of holy marvels doneBy strong affection, of deliverance wonThro' its prevailing power! Are these things toldTill the young weep with rapture, and the oldWonder, yet dare not doubt,–and thou, oh! thou,Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay?–Thou canst not!–thro' the silent night, ev'n now,I, that need prayer so much, awake and prayStill first for thee.–Oh! gentle, gentle friend! How shall I bear this anguish to the end?

Sinks thro' the greensward!–is there not a cryFrom the wrung heart, of power, thro' agony,To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy! hear me! NoneThat bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun,Have heavier cause!–yet hear!–my soul grows dark–Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark,On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown,Its freight of human hearts?–th' o'ermastering wave!Who shall tell how it rush'd–and none to save?

Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know,There would be rescue if this were not so.Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board,Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd,Thou'rt where the dancers meet!–a magic glassIs set within my soul, and proud shapes pass,Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall;– I see one shadow, stateliest there of all–

Thine! What dost thou amidst the bright and fair,Whispering light words, and mocking my despair?It is not welI of thee!–my love was moreThan fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore; And there thou smilest while my heart is dying,With all its blighted hopes around it lying;Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf–Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief.

Death!–what, is death a lock'd and treasur'd thing, Guarded by swords of fire? 2 a hidden spring,A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure,As if the world within me held no cure?Wherefore not spread free wings–Heaven, Heaven! controlThese thoughts–they rush–I look into my soulAs down a gulf, and tremble at th' arrayOf fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray,So shall their dark host pass.

The storm is still'd.Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou, canst soundThe heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd, For human line too fearfully profound.Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child,Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild,And sinn'd in her despair! It well may be,That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee–By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd,The stricken love which hath perchance ador'dA mortal in Thy place! Now, let me striveWith Thy strong arm no more! Forgive, forgive!Take me to peace!

And peace at last is nigh. A sign is on my brow, a token sentTh' o'erwearied dust, from home: no breeze flits by,But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blentOf many mysteries.

Hark! the warning toneDeepens–its word is Death. Alone, alone, And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart,Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heartShall wake a spirit and a power to bless,Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness,Thee, its first love!–oh! tender still, and true! Be it forgotten if mine anguish threwDrops from its bitter fountain on thy name,Tho' but a moment.

Now, with fainting frame,With soul just lingering on the flight begun,To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,I bless thee! Peace be on thy noble head,Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead!I bid this prayer survive me, and retainIts might, again to bless thee, and again!Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate Too much; too long, for my sake, desolate

Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back,From dying hands, thy freedom, and re-track(After a few kind tears for her whose daysWent out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send,Ev'n then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend!Down to my voiceless chamber; for thy loveHath been to me all gifts of earth above,Tho' bought with burning tears! It is the sting Of death to leave that vainly-precious thingIn this cold world! What were it, then, if thou,With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now?Too keen a pang!–Farewell! and yet once more,Farewell!–the passion of long years I pour Into that word: thou hear'st not,–but the woeAnd fervour of its tones may one day flowTo thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell–We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet–Farewell!